


an invisible bed................. a fReaky GHOst BED YEah yeah yeah yEAH Yeah y

by ashesburnt



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, i dont know how to tag this its about a sentient bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 11:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19317334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashesburnt/pseuds/ashesburnt
Summary: yee......... haw





	an invisible bed................. a fReaky GHOst BED YEah yeah yeah yEAH Yeah y

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in 20 minutes because i was, in the middle of a bout of insomnia, surprised that nobody had written a fic about the bed yet. enjoy, or dont

The setting sun gave the room a goldenrod hue. The buzz of insects filtering through the window gave the impression that it was warm that night; but he didn't have any way to know this, because he was a bed.

That evening, the bed would lie in wait for hours. He would watch the moon slowly come into view, casting dark shadows into the room, giving the flowers on the windowsill an ethereal violet backlight. He would wait as the clouds drew in unseen in the dark of night and the sound of raindrops began to echo through the open window.

That evening, he would wait longer than usual for the kid to come back.

That evening, as the anxiety began to eat at his threads, he would question his role. He would wish to take a more active part in the daily happenings of the Habitat. His role was to sit and wait and provide comfort to his charge; but these days, they had been spending less and less time asleep, and he felt he was neglecting his duties.

That evening, he would realise how much he cared for the kid. It would almost be embarrassing, knowing how much stock he'd put in someone he'd known for less than a fortnight. Truth be told, they were all he had. But, he would add, suddenly feeling the yawning void beneath his empty blankets, they were all he needed.

That evening, he would try once again to move toward the door. It was suffocating seeing the same six walls, the same dust-filled carpet, the same peeling wooden door, day in day out, no respite. He was lonely, and he would never admit it to himself. Alas, he is a bed, and thus would come to the realisation that he has no legs to move with. Defeated, he would look momentarily to the windowsill, the only constantly-changing part of the room as the kid planted new seeds, and feel at least a little placated. They were good to him. He would hope that he was being good to them.

That evening, the bed would try to take stock of its inexplicable sense of vision, trying to ascertain a source of perspective. His nonexistent head would spin and the subject would be hastily dropped.

That evening, as the clock struck one, the Doctor would pass by after making his nightly rounds, dragging the kid unceremoniously by the collar of their shirt. There would be twigs in their hair and soil under their fingertips; and suddenly both of those things would be scattered across his blankets as their comatose body were dropped onto him. The bed would finally rest.

The next morning, he would gently reprimand them for falling asleep outside their room, and he would be thankful he had no face to betray his expression as he surveyed the bruises that were certainly not there the day before.

But that was later. For now, the bed just laid in the same space it always had, watching the same window it always had.


End file.
